|   Full Moon Boogie and Singing Birds: A Captain's Tale | Joe Steel
May 29, 2003 6:04 AM | | E-qui-lib-ri-um (noun): A static or dynamic state in which all forces or processes are in balance and there is no resultant change.
"Oh oh." It's 7 a.m. on Saturday. The sun is beaming through my tent wall as the wind attempts to tear it down. My brain is sluggish. This was not part of the plan. I recall stirring in my tent at about 2 a.m. the night before and thinking, "that many beers should have been followed by equal parts water and a dose of ibuprofen."
On Friday evening Team Hamana set up camp on the shores of Adrenalin Island and opened it's doors to the unwashed masses. Their rental truck carted in couches, chairs, end tables, lamps, portable heaters, a foose ball table, a pinball machine, a disco ball and kegs of beer. In short a portable man-paradise/garage/hangout party pad. The beer and generosity flowed with plate loads of grilled sausage, chips and dip, and background music. It was beautiful -- until 7 a.m. rolled around.
I'm up making coffee at 8 a.m. when John and Greg arrive. I've dosed with the ibuprofen and downed a few cups of water. Now I'm about to jump start the day with a cup of java. What am I trying to do? Wring out the last little bit of water my feeble brain can spare? I don't have a choice. The coffee must flow.
Jeff arrives. My buddy Gary arrives. Ron's here. "Operation Wildhair" has arrived. The team pep talk follows. I've assembled five souls willing and nuts enough to pursue the challenge of a 24-hour mountain bike relay race. Four are veterans of last year's assault, while one has no idea. Our goal: to succeed as "Masters of Mediocrity." Our target was simple to finish mid pack or better. Reasonable, obtainable, yet still challenging for a mostly 40-year old group of dads.
One man among us had never previously participated in a 24-hour event. Convincing him to complete the Le Mans start and first lap seemed appropriate sort of a "baptism by fire". With the rest of the group having wisdom and sense from past experience, the new guy was my only hope. Thankfully, he willingly accepted.
I sent Greg down to the start at about 11:15 a.m. I also sent John as his "handler," to help him sigh in, keep him company -- and make certain he didn't change his mind. The rest of the team finished their final preparations, taking in the last few minutes of serenity before all hell broke loose.
At 11:45 a.m. we head down to the transition area and the start/finish line. The carnival of lycra and shiny helmets packed into the shoot is somehow comical. The music is pumping as the fevered pitch increases. You can feel the adrenaline start to build. The solo riders are introduced. Smiling and fresh. You wonder how the next 24-hours will unfold for these individuals. The immortal Tinker emerges. Then the count down. Ten, nine, eight. The freak show is on as the rainbow of lycra and tap shoes clamor up the hillside and back down to the corral of bikes! One quick prologue lap and they're off -- over the Bosh Bridge, down the other side, and on to the singletrack of Fort Ord. It is beautiful. The crowd is cheering as their friends and teammates pass by and trail away in the distance. I head back to camp to perform a final check, eat a banana, and get psyched. I'm in the second slot.
Back at the transition area the crowd has dissipated. It's strangely quiet and calm as you consider the battle that rages just over the hill and out of sight. 30 minutes has passed. Now 45 minutes. You feel the anxiety rise. Any minute now. Finally, the P.A system cracks. A rider is visible on the horizon! The crowd roars. The music thumps. The anxiety rages in you as you quietly wait. First one rider, than two. Then groups of four and five. Eventually our lead rider comes into sight. My heart is racing as I impatiently wait at the edge of the transition tent.
Baton in hand, I race for the bike strategically corralled near the exit. Engaging cleats and shifting gears with the pedal to the metal I jam for the bridge. A quick dismount, a charge up the stairs, and a thumpy ride down the other side the race is on!
Barely cresting the singletrack with views of Laguna Seca to my right, my heart rate is already topped out as the transition area fades from sight. Thankfully the trail turns down with sweet twisty singletrack barreling through open grassland. Switchbacks down through a wash, a short grunt, followed by a gradual climb brings me to the base of Hurl Hill. Mercifully, the short downhill has allowed enough recovery to power up the grind.
The top opens to broad fire road. Jamming both shifters and grabbing the big gears, riders are roaring over washboards. Tucked into an aerodynamic wedge I attempt to put space between myself and the riders in back. Picking off as many souls as I can, I vie for position as we enter the next section of singletrack.
Through tight, twisty, sandy turns, we begin to climb through tunnels of poison oak. The rise settles atop switchbacks down to the Kenda junction. Mortals to the left, National Champions to the right. I go left.
Back through more tight, twisty, rolling singletrack -- riders begin to stack up. Through one turn, then two. Finally a space opens up. "On your Left!" and, "Thanks", I bellow with an emphasis of courtesy as I take advantage of a small clearing. Through whoop-d-doo's and tree tunnels we rail.
Ahh the sweetness of it all. This is why I'm here. The bliss. The pain. The pounding. The joy. The beauty of sweet singletrack rolled into a chaotic mass with form and function. Beautiful.
The singletrack empties onto Pilarcitos Canyon Road -- fondly referred to as, "the long climb home." This is where you will find the spent stragglers, the joy riders, and the epic soloists midway through their journey. This is also where you'll find the lean, long legged, focused, sinuous hammerheads pounding the big ring with muscles trained on pavement.
It's a beautiful moment of reckoning as you grind your way home. Picking off a few stragglers here and there as you make way. You balance the pain in your legs with the burning of your lungs. Pushing onward and up you settle into a groove. Content with your progress. Then it happens. The sound of gravel under tires. Increasing. Your peripheral vision picks up a signal. You're being passed. It's a beautiful thing. The course is working toward equilibrium. Gradually, over a period of 24-hours, the universe will settle into a rightful state. Order will form from chaos. The cream will rise. All things will be right. But for now, the battle continues to rage.
Onward we climb, passing false summits. The course levels off. The dull pounding of the infield becomes clear. You're nearly home. The fire ignites once more. Across the small wooden bridge and up the last little monster of a hill. Shifting and grinding the gears, you wail toward the infield. Riding down the stairs once more, you shout for your teammate as you pass the transition area on the final lap of pavement before timing out. The baton is passed and the rider is gone. You're on your own now. There is peace in your mind. For the moment you are free to relax and enjoy a job well done.
The team settles into a routine as we work through the rotation. Relaxed and recovered, I get the tap. Three hours have passed and I'm on deck again. I'm pumped. I grab a banana and a Clif Shot and head for the transition tent to check in. My second lap passes much like the first.
The long climb home is where one gets sucked in. The rage of the race can fade here as you drop into your own little world. Chatting to the soloists motoring along, exchanging pleasantries with fellow comrades. The friendliness of all the likeminded individuals warms you. It's a challenge for me to stay competitive here. The strong head wind is demoralizing. First one rider passes. Then two. I hop on the rear wheel and draft. Wow. What a difference. This is great. We gain on several riders. Picking up speed. We're passing. A hundred yards or so goes by and I get the nod from the rider up front. Oh oh. The pressure is on. It's my turn to pull the weight. I step up to the front and face the wind. Thankfully the brief rest has paid off. I have the strength to lead the way. We power up the hill making way and passing still more riders. A few more grunts, digging deeper each time and I'm done. Momentarily spent. I pull to the side and my partner pulls to the front. I hop on again and we continue up the hill. Man, this is beautiful. A few more position changes and we've made it to the top. Oddly, I've not shared more than two words with this guy, but I feel as though we're old friends. We crest the top of the climb and now we're each on our own once again.
As the sun settles in the west, new challenges rise. Our nighttime strategy is bitter sweet back-to-back night laps. The benefit -- you get more time off the bike to rest. The price -- the second lap is a bear and our times will suffer.
After finishing two laps during the day, I enjoy the extended break as the night sky unfolds. A nearly full moon begins to rise as we enjoy a nice meal of grilled meat and vegetables, sautéed mushrooms, and a salad. I have a choice stout set aside, paired beautifully to the feast. This is living -- bikes, good food, friends, and camping. Completely satiated, I head to the tent for a welcomed rest.
At midnight I get the tap. The rider before me has just headed out for his back-to-back night laps. I have about two hours until it's my turn to "pay the piper." The extended rest was certainly welcome. The pay back is definitely dreaded. At 2 a.m. I find myself barreling down the stairs and off in my own little world once again. It certainly is beautiful out here. The moon lighting up the hillside. The glow of headlights in the distance and the deep red flashing of alien taillights. The strain of leg muscles becomes more apparent. I just can't dig as deep. Momentarily, a shadow of doubt enters my mind. Thankfully, the infield comes into view. A nice flat lap of pavement spinning feels good.
Through the transition tent and I'm off again. One down, and one to go. Self-generated words of encouragement ring in my mind. "You can do it." "Just one more time." "C'mon -- kick some ass!" The downhill singletrack is sweet. It feels so good to be clipping along at such a high rate of speed. Just hanging on. The course blurs by and I find myself once again on the long climb home. I consciously tell myself, "don't get in a lull here". "Stay on it." "Keep pushing." "Go." "Dig buddy!" I run out of words and end up spinning along. I pass a few. A few more pass me. I try to hop on, but it's futile. There are men and women out here riding solo all day and night and I can't put two laps together? You call yourself a mountain biker? I gradually accept my fate as I climb along. Periods of rest follow brief exertions of hope. A fire is still burning -- if only I could tap it.
Then it happened. The sound of crunching gravel from behind. Not unusual at this stage of my race. I've been past a few times on the long climb home. But this was different. Three-fourths of the way home, pumping away, and the sound of crunching gravel from behind is accompanied by a sweet little voice singing like a bird, "isn't it beautiful out here?" A woman is passing me. Lovely. I accept my fate and honor this superior athlete. She's pleasant and I enjoy her company. She lifts my spirit and my energy, and together we overcome the last few riders as we crest the summit. She is part of a four-woman team from Florida. Riding the extended National loops and kicking my tail.
The ladies here amaze me. Over the past few years that I've competed in this event, the women's competition has really grown. These women are fantastic athletes. Surpassing the abilities of many of the men, while maintaining (even enhancing) their beauty and femininity. I have two daughters that I hope will observe and emulate the strength, effort, and dedication that the women here portray.
"Ms. Florida" and I rally the rest of the way home, around the flat track, and through the transition tent. Thank goodness. Stick a fork in me. I'm cooked. I stop by the fire pit and watch a bit of the movie playing on the stage. This is great. I mow three ears of corn. A shower, more food, a beer, and I'm back in my tent. One more lap to go.
Our team is doing great. We've vacillated between 17th and 18th place over the course of the evening. Our back-to-back night laps have slowed us a bit. But our Sunday morning laps are invigorated. The break has done us well. Our lead of only seconds has grown to a few minutes. The team is jacked up. Not one mistake. Not one mechanical. Things are running smooth. We're proud of our progress. We're all pulling our weight and doing the best we can. Each of us fire off respectable laps on Sunday morning.
Things are winding down. The air of an adventure coming to an end settles in. I hate packing up. I do as much as I can to get ready. I tear down the tent. Gather my things. As a team, we head down to the transition area as the count down to closure arrives. We cheer as our last rider crosses the line. We socialize with folks we're meeting for the first time. We enjoy the pasta fest and share a final beer. The wind has finally died down and a beautiful day is unfolding. Thoughts of home, a warm shower, a warm meal with loved ones, and a cozy bed fill my mind as we pull away from Salinas. We've finished 17th out of 42 teams in our category. I'm exhausted. I'm satisfied and content, and I have another set of memories to last the rest of my life. |
| pics?? | Joe Steel
Jun 4, 2003 5:57 AM | | I was a little busy with the race, but I did manage to click a few.
Here's camp on Windy Hill........ |
| Solo man..... | Joe Steel
Jun 4, 2003 6:02 AM | | lookin' good on Sunday morning |
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